


you taste like strawberries on a summer evening

by lunarins



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: KITAS GRANDMA CAMEO, M/M, Midnight Diner AU, Shirabu cameo, Sound Designer! Suna, Strangers to Lovers, bokuaka if you squint, copious amount of food imagery/metaphors, fast...burn?, kenma cameo, sakuatsu (kinda), that or i was just reading it quickly idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27009811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarins/pseuds/lunarins
Summary: It’s when the last train in the station grinds to a halt, somewhere tucked in an alley just hidden behind an usually bustling street, ‘Midnight at Miya’s’ breathes to life.Miya Osamu has always wondered what love tasted like.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 41
Kudos: 176
Collections: SunaOsa, SunaOsa Week 2020





	you taste like strawberries on a summer evening

**Author's Note:**

> for sunaosa week day 5: restaurant so ofc midnightdiner!au  
> this is the first hq fic i've ever written and the first thing i've written in 5 years that wasn't a uni paper. i've been living off of suna crumbs so i hope suna is suna.
> 
> title taken from a meme that i thought was funny on twitter but upon further research, have come to realize it's literally lyrics from harry styles' watermelon sugar. go figure.

Midnight. That was Miya Osamu’s favourite time of the day. There was something magical about starting your day when the city slows its pace and lulls itself to sleep. Maybe it was because it felt like a new world opened up in the dark, stripping itself of its bright armour and letting itself be wrapped around the comfort of the shadows. Or maybe it was simpler than that. 

Maybe it was the sound of the bell as the door slid open and the first customer of the night walks in, the smell of freshly cooked rice seeping through the cracks of the door, spiraling into the cold night air. 

“Welcome!” Osamu smiles, brushing his bangs away from his face with his arm as he looks up at his guest from over the stove. There’s flour smudged on his face but as always, he doesn’t notice. “Please take a seat anywhere, I’ll be right with you.”

The customer shuffles in, strands of black and blonde hair peeking from underneath his hood. “Neko Manma please,” he murmurs, sliding into one of the stools with a small hop. 

Osamu sticks his head out from the open kitchen knowingly. “His cat scratched ya again?”

“Mhmm.” 

“I gotcha.” 

And so it begins, right at midnight. Miya Osamu’s favourite time of the day.

It’s when the last train in the station grinds to a halt, somewhere tucked in an alley just hidden behind an usually bustling street, ‘Midnight at Miya’s’ breathes to life.

🍙🍙🍙

It wasn’t a large diner by any means and Osamu preferred it that way. Midnight at Miya’s was a small establishment - a simple open kitchen with six wooden stools tucked neatly under a wrap around wooden counter. Open from 12-7am, its customers - for the most part - fell squarely into two categories: the lost who stumble in seeking temporary solace, drawn by the warm glow of the lantern only to never find their way back; and the found, the insomniacs and those working odd hours, who have hung onto the warmth in Miya Osamu’s cooking.

Although, Osamu thinks, tonight’s current customer was not so much of a regular customer rather than a pain in the ass. 

“More tuna,” Atsumu demands, squinting as he watches his twin brother prepare his dish of choice. He’s lounging on one of the stools closest to the kitchen with a foot propped up on another, jabbing his chopsticks around authoritatively. “More green onions too, ‘Samu. Don’t skimp out.” 

Osamu grumbles to himself as he grudgingly chops up another stalk of green onions, sweeping them into his hands carefully before dumping them unceremoniously into Atsumu’s bowl. “One negitoro don.”

Atsumu eyes the bowl in front of him, poking its content with his chopsticks with a slight frown. An eyebrow twitches up, tilting his head to the side as if to say, ‘ _this_ is more tuna?’ 

Osamu glowers at his twin. “Shut up. You get what ya get and ya don’t get upset,” he says, reciting a rhyme their mother had taught them while they were growing up. “Besides, it’s not like you pay for any of this anyways.”

Atsumu sputters, clutching at his heart dramatically. “I am payin’ ya...with eye candy.”

A snort bubbles from the chef’s lips, eyes crinkling both with fondness and exasperation. “We have the same face,” Osamu mutters, shaking his head. Not that Atsumu heard him anyways, since he had already begun stuffing his face. Brothers.

The bell chimes and the door slides open, a familiar face appearing from the shadows of the night. The customer slides into the nearest seat, immediately slumping down on the counter, tucking his face into the crook of his arm. 

Osamu clucks sympathetically. “Shirabu-san, long day?”

The boy looks up at him through his slanted copper bangs, brown eyes ringed with exhaustion as he stares blankly at Osamu. “Have you ever,” he begins slowly, propping himself up. “... pulled someone’s dick out of a million dollar vase ... just _hours_ before it’s supposed to be presented to the prime minister on national television?” 

Across the room, Atsumu chokes on his rice. 

Osamu shoots his brother a look, before retreating back into the kitchen to fetch his tea cups. He places a cup in front of the general surgery resident - who has already returned to his slumped over state - before giving the other to Atsumu. “Well, I can’t say that I have,” he says finally.

Shirabu hums, fingers wrapping around the cup as he brings it closer to his face, inhaling the steam. “Well aren’t you lucky.”

He sips his tea quietly, before sitting up straighter as if remembering something. “The usual today for me, ” he says, rummaging through his backpack and pulling out a small plastic bag. “But add these in please, my mom dropped these off today, said it was good for me or whatever.”

It’s okra. Osamu pulls one of them out of the bag thoughtfully, flipping the green vegetable this way and that as recipes flip through his mind. Shirasu with okra. Yeah, he can make it work.

Cinching the apron around him a bit tighter, Osamu smiles. “Okay, comin’ right up.”

🍙🍙🍙

The diner - for the most part - had no menu. Miya Osamu was never one to restrict himself to just a couple of dishes (if you asked him what he wanted his last meal to be, he wouldn’t know how to answer), nor was he one to come up with any kind of elaborate, decadent menu (if anything, the words elaborate and decadent were more Atsumu’s style). Instead, he lets his customers decide what they are feeling that night. If he had the ingredients, he would make it, as long it wasn’t anything too complicated. In a way, it felt like the dishes he made hit closer to home: fragments of memories and love mixed into the broth, the rice, and the noodles, made to fill the heart. 

🍙🍙🍙

Miya Osamu believed in love at first sight. When it came to food, that is. The way cut okra could look like tiny green stars resting in a bed of enoki mushrooms and shirasu, or how beautiful it was to cut into a perfectly sunny yolk and watch it run down a mountain of fluffy rice like a golden river. There was just _something_ about the way a dish could be presented that made eating it so much more satisfying. If you asked Miya Osamu about love, he’d ask you what it tasted like. 

It’s a little past 5 am when the bell jingles and a man walks into the diner, tendrils of sunlight trailing after him. 

“Welcome,” Osamu calls from the kitchen, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

He hums as he whisks the eggs in his bowl with chopsticks, pouring them carefully into the small rectangular frying pan and stirring them lightly for a more fluffier omelet. Pulling the pan closer to him, he rolls the egg once, twice, three times with the flick of his wrist, popping the air bubbles with the chopsticks. Just how Kita Obaachan likes it.

The dish is placed in front of the old lady with care, the row of soft yellow warms up the counter along with a bowl of freshly cooked rice. “Tamagoyaki and of course, rice courtesy of your grandson, ” Osamu announces. “Enjoy.”

She looks up from her old flip phone - a text from her grandson, he presumes - lighting up when she sees the dishes in front of her. “Thank you for the meal.” she murmurs, hands clasped together in a quick prayer before reaching into the tub of chopsticks and digging in happily.

Smiling to himself, Osamu flits towards the other end of the counter to greet his new customer. He’s never seen him at the diner before, Osamu notices immediately. They’re about the same age but even while slouching in his seat, he could tell the other was slightly taller, with dark brown bangs framing a pointed face, the ends fanning out on either side. Like a squashed onigiri, he thinks faintly, lips curling up into a smile. And his eyes…. _Oh_. His eyes were a frosty pale green, like the colour of sea glass he and his brother used to collect on the beach as children.

_How pretty._

Osamu shakes his head at the thought, plastering on his best ‘customer service’ smile to greet the newcomer. “What can I getcha today?”

The man blinks, looking up from his phone. “You don’t have a menu here,” he states flatly, eyes flicking around to the sparsely decorated walls and back around the counter to meet the chef’s gaze. 

“That I don’t.” 

The man’s face is impassively blank, but his eyes narrow just the slightest. He’s cute, Osamu realizes belatedly, with sharp cheekbones that could probably filet a fish…or something. His mind is drawing a blank. Osamu shakes his head a little, chastising himself. It’s not the first time someone attractive has walked into his diner; if he stares any more and he’ll be no different than his brother with Mr. Ume Ochazuke, his prickly Thursday night regular. He was better than that.

“I can make any dish ya want if I have all the ingredients,” Osamu explains. “What’s yer favourite food?”

“Chuupets.”

Fish cutting cheekbones are quickly forgotten as now it was Osamu’s turn to blink back at him, rather incredulously. “Chuupets are not a meal,” he says utterly scandalized. “They’re a snack.”

The man shrugs. “A tasty snack.”

He’s about to argue further, when Kita Obaachan clears her throat from across the counter. “Miya-san is right. You need to eat a proper breakfast,” she says. She’s already done her meal, plates lined up neatly on top of one another for ease of collection. Her tea cup is empty though, so Osamu retreats into the shop for a refill. “What’s your name, child?”

The man ducks his head politely, looking a bit sheepish. “Suna Rintarou.”

“Suna-kun, you need to eat more.” Blunt and straight to the point. That was Kita Obaachan for you.

From the kitchen, Osamu stifles a laugh.

“Yes ma’am.” he hears Suna say. 

“Make him what you made me,” the grandmother calls at Osamu, before turning back to Suna. 

Easy enough. The sizzle of egg hitting the pan, wooden clatter of chopsticks to pop the bubbles, then roll, roll, roll.

When Osamu sets down the dish in front of them, he peeks at Suna. The poor boy looks slightly uncomfortable, but his eyes betray him, expression softening as he listens to the grandmother speak.. “Our Shinsuke eats this every day so that he can get the strength to go out to the paddy field...”

He retreats back into the kitchen to give them some privacy, busying himself with the dishes while munching on leftover tamagoyaki.

Osamu doesn’t return to the counter until Kita Obaachan waves goodbye to them both, a couple of carefully placed bills tucked under her tea cup. Suna is still there, nursing his cup of tea and scrolling idly through his phone again. 

“Sorry about Kita Obaachan,” Osamu offers offhandedly. “I think she misses nagging her grandson.”

“No, it was nice,” Suna says quietly. There’s a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips as he looks into his now empty plate. “Her grandson is really lucky to have her.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Suna is standing up with a little stretch, hands reaching for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

Osamu waves him off, having just counted the notes that Kita Obaachan had left behind. “I think she paid for yours as well, Suna-san.” 

The soft look returns and Osamu feels his stomach roll like an egg omelette. “Well, I guess I better treat her next time then,” he flashes Osamu a crooked grin. “And Suna’s just fine, Miya.” 

“It’s Osamu.”

There’s a sparkle in his eyes when he pushes the door open. “Thanks for the meal,” Suna calls over his shoulder. “I’ll see you around then...Osamu.” And with that he disappears into the morning light.

Love today, tastes decidedly like Tamagoyaki.

🍙🍙🍙

The sun is almost fully awake when Osamu finally closes shop for the day. He spends some time washing up the rest of the dishes and wipes down the counters before he steps out to do his shopping for that evening. 

Shopping in Tokyo is a lot different than how shopping felt back in his hometown. It’s quieter, more sterile, less warmth. In the mornings, supermarkets were quiet, its usual crowd tucked into cubicles elsewhere, waiting for the day to be over. When he first opened ‘Midnight at Miya’s’, Osamu had missed Hyogo dearly. He remembers weekend mornings he had spent at the farmer market with his grandfather as a child; the excitement he felt coming home to a bleary-eyed Atsumu with freshly baked bread and vegetables the colour of jewels in his arms. But the past was in the past now and memories were just memories. Over the years, Osamu learned to adapt. At least supermarkets had free samples.

Wandering through the aisles, he picks up the essentials; shirasu for the general surgery resident, bonito flakes for Kodzuken (he never did catch his real name), fatty tuna for his brother and some umeboshi. It was almost Thursday night afterall. 

When he heads towards the cashier, he grabs a tub of chuupets. Just in case.

  
  


🍙🍙🍙

They say once is an accident, twice is a pattern and three times is a habit. 

It takes a little over three weeks for Suna to become a habit. 

Not that Osamu has been keeping count. He keeps tabs on all his regulars an equal, normal amount. 

“I can’t stay long, I have a shoot later tonight,” Suna tells him the second he enters the diner. It’s been roughly two months since Suna first walked into ‘Midnight at Miya’s’ now and over the last few weeks he has slowly melted from being just a habit to something closer warmer like friends. 

From the kitchen, Osamu doesn’t bother looking up from the ball of rice he’s carefully shaping into a triangle. “Good evening to ya too, Sunarin.” He holds the rice ball up in front of the boy, squinting. It’s a bit more Suna shaped than he would like (read: squashed), so he pats the sides a bit more to give the onigiri more height. Much better.

Suna ignores him. “I see you’ve added to your menu,” he smirks, gesturing at the tub of chuupets that had recently been added next to the container of chopsticks. 

“Yeah, well. I thought it would make a nice post-meal snack.” Osamu tucks the nori neatly on the underside of the rice ball and places it onto the tray with the others before dipping his hands into water and then salt to start the process all over again. “Ya said ya had a shoot?”

“Mmm.” Suna mumbles, helping himself to a chuupet. “Shoot’s in Roppongi. Night life.” He makes a face, lips turned downwards in a miniscule pout. Osamu looks away, suddenly very interested in his rice scooper. “Hate clubs, they’re too noisy. If I wanted to be assaulted with noise I would just stick my head next to a blender.”

Osamu hums in agreement. He’s been to clubs with Atsumu before; he sat in the corner nibbling on snacks for most of the night, watching his brother flail around like an idiot. Not that it was something new, Atsumu flailed around like an idiot on a regular basis, regardless of location. Though, Osamu thinks, clubs might be just a bit more fun if he had someone like Suna next to him. 

“Your water is boiling,” Suna is saying with a raised brow and Osamu realizes belatedly that he’s been staring. The new rice ball in his hands is more squashed and Suna-shaped as ever. 

“Huh?”

Oh. The dumplings. Crap. He retreats into the kitchen to turn the stove off, peering at the pot worriedly as the dumplings roll around in bubbling water. Osamu plates them hastily, while sneaking a peek at the other boy. Did he notice?

If Suna noticed, he doesn’t show it, opting to focus on the project Osamu was working on prior to his arrival. “So what’s all the onigiri for?” He asks, stabbing a chopstick into the plate of dumplings the chef sets in front of him. 

The chef spoons some salmon into the center of the rice before shaping it. “A catering job for a V.League game tomorrow.” More or less. Akaashi Keiji was a longtime regular at the diner, having picked up a taste for Osamu’s onigiris whenever his partner - Bokuto Koutarou of the MSBY Black Jackals - had an away game. It reminded him of the snacks Bokuto used to make him during their high school days, he had told Osamu once over tea; the familiarity of the rice balls made his love being so far away just a bit more bearable. It made sense that Bokuto wanted to propose to him over an onigiri bento. 

For Akaashi and Bokuto, love probably tasted like onigiris.

Osamu casts a sideway glance at the boy in front of him, only to realize that Suna is already looking right back at him intently. Seaglass green meets slate grey. He can hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, faint but ticking faster like a heartbeat. Is it his heartbeat? Osamu can’t tell. 

He looks away quietly.

There’s some rice stuck to his cheek as always, but this time, Suna reaches over wordlessly to brush it away. 

Osamu can’t help but wonder what love tasted like to Suna.

🍙🍙🍙

  
Suna Rintarou melts into his life as easily as miso paste in hot water. Whether it was at midnight, at 4am or on the cusp of 7, every few days, Suna would show up at the diner with that small smile on his lips and the eyes the colour of sea glass. "Surprise me." He would say lazily to Osamu, often while sucking on a chuupet. They would split a plate of whatever Osamu was testing that week and relish in each other’s company. 

Over butter rice, Osamu tells Suna about how he learnt to cook for him and his brother since his parents were often too busy at work. ( _You should visit the farmer’s markets in Hyogo, they got the best veggies)_ . When Shirabu, the general surgery resident visits again, Osamu makes okra and shirasu for them both, telling Suna all about his twin brother. ( _He’s a pain in the butt but he’s MY pain in the butt, yenno?)_ They’re eating dumplings again when he recounts Bokuto’s proposal ( _Akaashi-kan totally choked on the ring. They come by sometimes together now, a plate of onigiris between them, holding hands underneath the counter. It’s disgustingly cute.)_

In turn, a couple times a month, he lets Suna coax him out of the diner on his days off.

It’s on the rooftop above the Shibuya intersection when Suna shows him the meticulous recordings he has of his apartment when he’s away from home. (He’s convinced his neighbour’s dog is the one murdering his doorway plant with its piss, he can hear it.) Somewhere in a small arcade in Akihabara, Osamu learns that Suna - with his sense of sound - is an absolute _demon_ in FPS games. ( _You can literally hear which direction they’re coming from. Don’t worry ‘Samu, if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse, I’d protect ya.)_ They’re on the Kitas’ rice farm for ‘morning ambiance’ (Suna’s words) or ‘rice sounds’ (Osamu’s words) when Suna tells him about how his grandmother was the one who got him into sound design as a child. He’s always been soft with grandmothers since.

And so it begins. Like miso paste in hot water.

These days, Osamu finds that his favourite time of the day was when one Suna Rintarou shows up at his door.

  
  
  


🍙🍙🍙

“You’re attached,” Atsumu announces suddenly one night and Osamu nearly scalds himself with the noodles he’s straining. 

“Rintarou and I are just friends.”

He doesn’t need to be looking to know that Atsumu is absolutely preening, relishing his twin’s discomfort. Asshole.

“So it’s Rintarou now?”

Osamu throws a chuupet at his brother, who catches it deftly, tongue sticking out. “Shut yer mouth.”

Okay. So maybe he was a bit attached. Being friends with Rintarou was so simple, like freshly made rice. It felt nice. Warm. Familiar. But the longer he was friends with him, the more he realized that the _something_ in the pit of his stomach was his hunger for something more. He wants to know what dish love tastes like for him and if Suna gave him that chance, he wants to cook that for him. Like water coming to a boil, somewhere between butter rice and the plate of dumplings, Osamu realizes slowly that he must have fallen in love with Suna Rintarou.

But they were simply friends and Osamu doesn’t dare bite off more than he could chew. 

“Go suck a dick, ‘Tsumu,” he spits out, jabbing his scooper into the rice cooker rather sharply.

Atsumu’s smirk is almost foxlike. “Why else do you think I’m here, brother dearest?”

It’s Thursday, he realizes. 

Osamu would very much like to throw up now. “Yer disgusting.”

“No you~”

As if on cue, the door slides open and his brother snaps back into his seat, brightening visibly. “Omi-kun!”

Sakusa Kiyoomi flushes slightly behind his medical mask, grip tightening around his grocery bags of ingredients as the door slides shut behind him. “Miya-san,” he says, nodding respectfully towards Osamu before settling into his seat in the corner of the diner across from Atsumu. A curt “Miya,” is what he offers to the blonde twin. 

“Omiomi, you’ll let me have a bite today would ya?” Atsumu sing-songs as Sakusa hands over his plastic bag of ingredients.

“The usual please.” There’s a pause. Then more plastic is pressed into Osamu’s hand. 

Sakusa pulls his medical mask down to his chin, looking uncomfortable as he meets Atsumu’s gaze, expression unreadable. But his eyes, they were rich with fondness. “I brought enough ingredients for two today, Miya.” He’s blushing, Osamu realizes, lips curling into that secret smile and warmth that the chef only ever caught a glimpse of between bites of Ume Ochazuke.

A smile that was now directed at his brother. 

Atsumu is over the moon. “Omi-kun…”

Leave it to Atsumu to have a better love life than him by just being annoying. 

Osamu retreats into the kitchen with the bags of ingredients. Ever since they were children, Atsumu was always running ahead, chasing what he wanted. It’s because he’s older, Osamu tries to reason with himself, ‘Tsumu can always be ahead because he knows that someone will always be behind him to catch him. He’s always been the cautious twin, the milder twin. _Is it because I’m older or are ya just scared?_ He can feel his brother’s eyes boring into the back of his head as he pulls out the container of Japanese pickled plums. _I’m scared too, yenno._ He places the kettle on the stove. 

_Well? What are ya waiting for ‘Samu?_

Osamu sighs, watching the water come to a boil. 

  
  


🍙🍙🍙

When Summer comes around, Rintarou takes Osamu to the banks of Sumida River. It’s beautiful at night, he had told him and Rintarou was right. There are little boats floating along the water, the sounds of water rocking gently against the rock, the summer breeze dancing through the air. The Skytree is glowing, casting neon hues across the river bank, adding flecks of colour to the sound designer’s pale face. 

As soon as Suna is done setting up his microphones, they settle onto the blankets with a container of dumplings between them. They had spent the afternoon making them together, elbows bumping and hands full of flour. Unsurprisingly, Osamu’s had turned out perfectly and Rintarou’s, a bit overstuffed, put together with mismatched pinches. They had burst a little when they were boiling them, but Osamu had reassured him that they’d still be delicious. Rintarou had cracked a crooked smile at him then and when he reached over to smudge some flour off Osamu’s face, he leaned into the touch.

“Rin, why do you like sounds so much?” he speaks up now, watching the boy intently.

Rintarou hums, rummaging through his bag for a chuupet. “‘Cause they disappear.”

Osamu turns, looking at him curiously. There’s a beat of silence before Rintarou continues. “Once you accept that all things will disappear someday, you learn to hold onto what you have in the present.”

Oh. _Well? What are ya waiting for ‘Samu?_

“Rin, what do you think love tastes like?” Osamu blurts out.

“That’s easy. Probably like your dumplings.”

Osamu blinks. “Really?”

Rintarou shrugs, “Mhmm.”

There’s that pang in his stomach again, a yearning for something more and this time, Osamu really couldn’t be bothered to wait any more. This time, he’s running ahead too.

“Well I think it tastes like strawberries,” Osamu finds himself saying and Rintarou looks up at him in surprise. Like sea glass, Osamu thinks absentmindedly, and then he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips to Rintarou’s. It’s a chaste kiss at first until Rintarou kisses him back, almost hungrily, hands grabbing fistfuls of Osamu’s shirt, pulling him closer. Mouths lined slick, tongues dancing, drowning in each other’s taste.

They pull apart, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. Somewhere on the ground next to them, the pink chuupet lies, half-eaten. “You do taste like strawberries.”

An eyebrow arched, lips pulling up into a small smirk. “Miya Osamu, is this a confession?” Rintarou teases, hands lowering down Osamu’s arm, lithe fingers pressing into the small of his wrist. It wasn’t the clock, Osamu realizes. And Rintarou probably knew it wasn’t the clock all along.

Osamu flushes. “Like ya could do any better.”

“I don’t need to.” Suna grabs his hands, placing one on his chest right above his heart. “You can hear it.”

And he does. 

  
  


🍙🍙🍙

Midnight. That _was_ Miya Osamu’s favourite time of the day. 

The bell sounds as the door slides open, the smell of freshly cooked rice seeping through the cracks of the door, spiralling into the cold night air. 

“What are you feeling like today?”

“You.”

A soft smile. Seaglass and slate. A plate of dumplings between them.

For Miya Osamu and Suna Rintarou, love was like eating a satisfying meal. Warm. Familiar. 

When Rintarou’s hand was in his, Osamu felt full. 

(Even long after Midnight at Miya’s closes for the day and the city starts waking with life, the smell of laughter and the taste of love lingers.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading~ i'm at [@hanoorins](https://twitter.com/hanoorins) on twitter if u wanna be friends  
> ty for jinju and dannis for watching me struggle and have the attention span of a goldfish 
> 
> here are the foodnotes (not in chicago mla):  
> neko manma: also known as ‘cat food rice’ is made with rice, bonito flakes and some soy sauce. as much as kenma wants to be friends with cats, they low key hate him? (see: lev's ova) everytime kuroo’s family cat scratches him, he comes to the diner to eat neko manma to “up his cat likeability stat”.  
> negitoro don: rice and fatty tuna with green onions. Topped with seaweed and bonito flakes and dressed in a mirin/soy sauce marinade. atsumu’s character profile says he likes fatty tuna but i needed a way where he did not awkwardly consume a whole raw fish straight up à la noya and marlin but with tsumu and tuna with tsumu doing a CHOMP on said tuna  
> okra and shirasu with katsuobushi: this is what shirabu orders. it's a gooey chewy sidedish w crunchy okra stars and noodle like enoki mushrooms and shirasu mixed with mentsuyu sauce. also sourced from character profile but idk why i put okra in it anyways. it's a legit recipe tho so feel free to google it and lmk if it's actually good  
> tamagoyaki: rolled egg omelettes. I’d like to think that this is the first dish kita’s grandma ever taught him to make and he eats it everyday on his rice farm for breakfast.  
> onigiri: I just had to reference onigiri miya!! bokuto and akaashi invite them to the wedding FYI.  
> butter rice: homage to the og midnight diner drama. i think it's sacrilegious to put butter on rice but whatever.  
> dumplings: i just was thinking about the crazy rich asians scene and how ppl make dumplings together as a family thing so in a way osamu's dumplings were like healing rin's lonely night prowls and making them together would be cute idk


End file.
